Last weekend, my wife and I stayed at a campground in Irons, Michigan, called Best Bear Resort. As we pulled in beneath the tall pines and saw the sign with its friendly bear, I couldn’t help but smile. Instantly, I was transported back to Grandma Cooper’s cottage and her unforgettable words:
“If it’s brown, lay down. If it’s black, fight back. If it’s white, goodnight.”
That phrase was more than just a warning about bears—it was a rite of passage, especially for the boys. At the cottage, the girls were granted the comfort of the indoors, tucked safely into beds with access to the bathroom whenever they needed it. The boys, on the other hand, were given tents outside and directed toward the outhouse, which we all called the “forty-one house.” Day or night, rain or shine, there was no exception.
Evenings often came with a personal reminder from Grandma. She’d pull me aside, her voice firm but kind, and say,
“Now Bobby, I want you to remember we have bears here in the woods. If you hear a ruckus, be very careful. Remember this now—if it’s brown, lay down. If it’s black, fight back. If it’s white, goodnight.”
“Goodnight?” I’d echo back, eyebrows raised.
Grandma would simply smile, as if she knew something I didn’t. “We’ll cross that bridge if it should happen.”
That cryptic little phrase rattled around my head as I lay in my sleeping bag, eyes wide and ears straining in the dark. Every rustle in the trees, every snap of a twig made my heart race. I’d repeat the words in my head like a nervous mantra: If it’s brown, lay down. If it’s black, fight back. If it’s white, goodnight.
Then came the inevitable. A noise. Not a small one either—loud enough to jolt me upright in my bag. My mind spun in circles. Was it a raccoon? A deer? Or worse—one of Grandma’s bears? And just as panic set in, another realization struck: I had to go to the bathroom.
With painstaking care, I unzipped the tent, inch by inch, peeking through the narrow gap before daring to poke my head out. Shadows seemed alive. The woods whispered. My courage—or maybe desperation—finally pushed me forward. I bolted to the forty-one house, slammed the door, locked it, and stood frozen.
“Control your breathing, Bobby,” I whispered to myself. “Calm down.”
After gathering my nerve, I did what I came to do and then sprinted back across the dark yard, diving headfirst into my sleeping bag. Once again, I lay still, ears alert, repeating those same words in rhythm with my heartbeat:
If it’s brown, lay down. If it’s black, fight back. If it’s white, goodnight.
At the time, those nights felt endless. Fear was a shadow that lingered over every creak and groan of the forest. Yet looking back now, I can’t help but smile. Those moments—though terrifying to a young boy—were part of what made staying at Grandma’s cottage so unforgettable.
And last weekend, standing under the stars at Best Bear Resort, I realized how much those old lessons still live inside me. I may not lie awake in a tent repeating Grandma’s bear rules anymore, but every crackle in the woods and every rustle in the night reminds me of her voice, steady and reassuring. What once filled me with fear now fills me with gratitude—a reminder that courage, like memory, stays with you wherever you go.
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